


Mirror

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mild Gore, halloween fic, yes it's both au and non-au at once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8436706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: Strange things start happening in the life of young Mairon. He ignores them for as long as he can. But when he finds messages written in an ancient language on his mirror, he is no longer able to pretend nothing is happening.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!

His eighteenth birthday was just around the corner when strange things first started happening around Mairon. He was a rational young man and as such, he wrote off the unusual events for as long as he was able to. It was easy to dismiss the incomprehensible whispers in the dark hours before dawn as hallucinations resulting from sleep deprivation. The notes which went missing from the desk and were later found under his bed could be attributed to the same lack of sleep. Mairon was even able to eventually learn to ignore the feeling of being constantly watched from the darkened corners wherever he went. Nightmares were normal, considering, and he thought he read somewhere about people being awake while their bodies didn’t register the return of consciousness, leaving them unable to move or breathe. Unusual, but… well, it happened, and he learned to live with it too, even if it scared him to bits.

But then he started finding the messages.

Initially, Mairon thought his brothers Curumo and Aiwendil played a prank on him. There was simply no other explanation for the weird symbols scrawled with a black soot-like substance on the surface of the giant mirror in his bedroom. He tried to grill them about it, but haughty only-just-a-teen Curumo claimed he knew nothing and Aiwendil, the easily frightened five-year-old, started crying, so interrogating him further was pointless. Irritated at his brothers’ childishness, Mairon simply cleaned the mirror and decided to forget about it. He had a nightmare that night, but all he remembered in the morning was being trapped somewhere dark. It, too, faded away as he went about his day.

The second time was when Eönwë came over to study together. The upcoming tests made even someone as flighty and careless as Mairon’s best friend fearful of the future: especially when that future appeared to contain not a small amount of advanced-level mathematical equations. The two sat together on the fluffy pillows on the floor, drank the chamomile lattes Mairon’s step-mother made for them and attempted to understand the algebraic problems most likely to appear on the test. Suddenly, the feeling of being watched intensified to a point where Mairon felt goose-bumps on the back of his neck; and when he turned his head, he found himself looking at the mirror – and the same symbols scrawled on the surface.

“What the fuck,” he muttered and got up to his feet. Eönwë used the opportunity to get a glance of his notes, but Mairon pretended that he didn’t notice. He would have shown Eönwë the notes anyway, so it wasn’t all that important. He walked up to the mirror and looked closely at the symbols. The way they were drawn looked smeared, like whoever did it used their fingers. It was unrecognizable, foreign and somehow seemed ancient, but Mairon could swear he had seen it before.

“Is this ancient Valarin?” Eönwë asked, making Mairon jump for the way he appeared behind him so out of nowhere.

“I have no idea,” Mairon muttered, embarrassed at the way he startled so easily. “Probably not. It’s just something stupid my brothers found somewhere and thought it’d be funny to put here. I’ll just wipe it off and-“

“No, wait!” Eönwë stopped him by grabbing his arm when Mairon moved to wipe the surface of the mirror with his sleeve.

“What? Just forget it,” protested Mairon irritably, but Eönwë was already taking a photo with his EyePhone.

“I’m sure I’ve seen the script before! I watched that documentary on ancient languages for the History class, I’m pretty certain it was there,” he explained and went back to the pillows to retrieve Mairon’s laptop.

“Don’t worry, I won’t look at your open tabs – whaaat, no porn? Just  _geography_  and  _grammar_? Mairon, you’re so fucking boring,” he exclaimed with a grin.

Mairon glared at him, but he refrained from cleaning the mirror and instead joined his  _stupid_  friend on the floor. Eönwë pulled up a new window and typed in their History teacher’s homepage address, then clicked around for a moment until he found a link. It opened a video with a long CGI intro showing historical events from thousands of years ago.

‘Since the re-emerging and re-colonization of the continent of Beleriand and later Numenor, researchers have been trying to reconstruct the cultures which used to populate these lands in the long-lost centuries of the First Age. Some were more successful that others. Archeologists have long been able to rediscover the isolated fortress of Himring, razed to the ground but surprisingly well-preserved below it. Anthropologists found proof of the alleged shared ancestry of Eldar and Edain in the well-preserved remains in the tombs of Numenoran kings. Art and lore of those ages continues to emerge in the least expected places, capturing the hearts of new generations just like it did its original audiences.

‘Among the recovered treasures of the glorious and yet terrible past, the chiefest of all are the languages of old. Records of events which survived the destructive forces of blaze and ocean were found in many regions: symbols engraved in stone and in metal, whole recounts locked in boxes and hidden underground, preserved in faded paintings and frescoes-‘

“Oh, whatever, booooring,” muttered Eönwë and skipped the better part of the video. “Somewhere here,” he said, frowned, skipped another three minutes. “Here it is! It’s brief, but look-”

“Shut up a moment, then!” Mairon hissed and turned his attention to the documentary.

‘-the most obscure of them, Ancient Valarin still holds many secrets from linguists. The only sources of the currently known scripture and pronunciation are the letters found in the Iron Mountains. It is sometimes assumed that the letters were drafted by servants of Sauron the Cruel during his rule of Angband, or perhaps by Sauron himself, although most historians find it doubtful and place the letters at a much later time period, possibly around War of Wrath. Legends and mythos aside, the letters are written in an elegant script which could be said to be not unlike ancient Tengwar. Individual symbols are more rounded and appear overall smaller, but the similarity helped establish a basis for interpretation. In addition to the similarity to Tengwar, the letters also contain allusions actually written in Tengwar. It is generally assumed that the allusions reference words in Quenya which are then explained in the original language of the letter in the passages following them-‘

“Why is this so long,” Eönwë complained.

“Be quiet!” Exclaims Mairon and turned up the volume on the laptop.

‘-mostly military-oriented. The New Beleriand University in Dor-Lomin houses the only linguistics department in the world to devote time and research into the study of ancient Valarin. It is thanks to their efforts that we are able to decipher common words, such as _time_ and _army,_ some more specific military terms like _lieutenant_ and _general_ , but also verbs such as _remember_ , _execute_ and, quite unexpectedly, _love_.’

Every word translated from ancient Valarin was shown on screen, written in the same script as the message on Mairon’s mirror. He felt something tug at his conscience when he saw the word _lieutenant,_ but he thought nothing of it. When the symbols for _remember_ were displayed, Mairon and Eönwë looked at each other before Mairon rewound the video and paused on the displayed word.

“Remember,” he muttered, comparing it to the photo on Eönwë’s phone. “It says, _remember_ ,” he repeats and looks at Eönwë, confused. “Remember what?”

“No idea, mate,” his friend replied not very helpfully. “I mean. It probably doesn’t mean anything. You said it yourself, your brothers pranked you. They probably saw the documentary. Well, Curumo. Can’t imagine Aiwendil staying still long enough to watch much of it…”

“Yeah,” Mairon agreed. “Yeah, Curumo must’ve seen it. Ahhh, look at the time! I can’t believe you distracted me with this for a whole hour! We’ll never ace the test,” he exclaimed and hit Eönwë with a pillow. Eönwë laughed and retaliated, and not much more studying was done that night. As for the symbols on the mirror, they were gone in the morning and Mairon assumed his step-mother cleaned his room again when he wasn’t looking.

The third time was, by far, the weirdest thing to ever have happened to Mairon in his life. He was at school finishing the literature quiz when all of a sudden, a throaty voice murmured his name – harsh, the consonants drawn out in a seductive drawl - close to his ear. Startled, he whipped around but there was nobody sitting behind him. When he turned back, frowning, his attention was drawn to the paper in front of him and he almost gasped out loud: large, finger-painted symbols adorned the sheet, spelling out _**REMEMBER**_ in ancient Valarin. Below, on the desk, there was another word, vaguely familiar letters of the script which he couldn’t recall out of his head, but he was sure he saw them in the documentary.

In a blink, both inscriptions were gone.

He wouldn’t tell anyone. What would he tell? That he was hallucinating? They’d probably test him for drugs and ruin his impeccable reputation in the process. Many people were jealous of his successes and popularity, they wouldn’t care that he never partook in anything illegal: they’d throw so much shit at him just based on the rumour, some of it would stick eventually. Mairon didn’t need that, so he wasn’t even going to speak to Eönwë about what was happening.

_What even_ is  _happening?_  He thought tiredly, handing in the quiz and leaving the classroom to go for lunch. For some reason, it felt like everyone was staring at him when he walked down the hall to the canteen. He tried to sneak a glance, but they were either good at hiding or they never even looked at him in the first place.

That night, he dreamed about the constricting darkness again. There were other things, this time, other details he didn’t remember from the previous nightmares: hundreds of eyes watching him, thousands of hands holding him down beneath the surface of the darkness, gagging him, blindfolding him, choking him – and light, light in the distance, but he couldn’t reach out because they kept him imprisoned, he couldn’t call out because he had no tongue, he couldn’t-

_**Mairon**_ _,_ a deep, hoarse voice murmured in his ear and he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling with eyes wide and unblinking. _**Mairon, remember. My lieutenant, my love, remember me…**_

He woke up. The first thing his gaze fell on was the damn mirror covering the entire door to the walk-in wardrobe; the surface was black, but not like it usually seemed at night. Darker, a twisting, shimmering kind of blackness appeared not to exist only inside the mirror but outside of it as well, reaching out in tendrils of smoke and ash and soot towards Mairon’s bed, as though to grab him, as though to capture him and pull him through-

Pain was what finally awakened him and he found himself on the floor below the bed. Startled at the brightness of the morning, Mairon looked at the mirror to see it completely normal. There was not even a smudge on the surface. The bedside clock read seven-thirty and for a moment Mairon wondered why the alarm didn’t trigger. Belatedly, he realized it was the weekend. His birthday. He was officially an adult now. A rather sore and not very well rested adult, but an adult nonetheless.

There was something eerie about the silence in the house at this hour. On a regular day, everyone would be up and about. Mairon’s brothers would be downstairs eating their breakfast and quarreling about their favourite characters in Riders of Rohan. Curumo would never admit it later and he threatened to shave Mairon’s eyebrows in his sleep if Mairon ever told the truth, because Riders of Rohan were considered to be a child show. Father would be gone or just about to go out because he was always in a hurry. Step-mother usually worked at home, but sometimes even she would have to drop by the office. Finally, Eönwë would often find a way to come by in the morning to annoy Mairon and eat a second breakfast. Glutton.

_I should have killed him when I had the chance_ , Mairon thought, and then:  _What the fuck._

He walked bare-foot down the stairs, hoping not to wake anyone. He was strangely hungry, more so than he usually was in the mornings, but he attributed that to the fact he missed dinner last night. The kitchen was empty just like he predicted and there was a pot on the stove. Something smelled delicious and Mairon picked up the lid to take a sniff. He frowned when he couldn’t recognize the dish, so he stirred it – and dropped the spoon. There was a long, dark-skinned finger inside. A fucking finger! What- what the fuck?

“Am I going crazy?” He asked the empty kitchen. There was no reply, but he thought he saw movement from the corner of his eye. Turning towards the source, he saw that there was something written on the white tabletop in bold, black finger-painted letters:

_**REMEMBER AND AWAKEN** _

The script was the same as before and even though Mairon should not have been able to understand most of the inscription, he did. The words were foreign, but at the same time they came back through a haze in his mind like a memory: he knew how to read them, he knew how to  _say them_. Bewildered, Mairon backed away and stumbled over something. He managed not to fall and he searched for what tripped him to find-

A head. Severed. A bloody severed head. He couldn’t see the features but. It was a head. He was sure.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I’m still dreaming. I’m still dreaming. Please. Please let this be a dream.” He moved away from the head carefully and, once he was sure he wouldn’t trip over it or the rest of the corpse – where WAS the rest of the corpse? – he ran to his parents’ bedroom.

“Father!” He yelled, bursting into the room without knocking. “Father, wake up, there’s-“ He trailed off. The bed was empty. It had not been slept on, judging from the way it was set. There was soot on top of the covers, sooty handprints. No text. No messages.

“No,” Mairon whimpered. Footsteps behind him, movement, the sound of doors opening and closing.

“Curumo!” He realized with a pang of fear, whoever left that severed leg in the kitchen could well be going upstairs to hurt his brothers right then. Mustering his courage, Mairon ran through the hallway and up the stairs, skipping every second step. Someone was watching him; he was sure of it, somebody was there, he could feel it, someone’s presence, _their presence_ and _his_ _presence_ , and he sprinted to Curumo’s room as though evil itself was chasing him.

The room was completely empty.

There was nobody there and nothing, just blank walls and emptiness. Struck speechless, Mairon tried to recall what the room looked like yesterday and found that he couldn’t – he couldn’t remember. Something about there being – draperies on the walls. A crystal ball? Pillars? But no. Who’d have pillars in their room? Unless it was not supposed to be a room. It was… It was-

_A tower_ , his mind supplied, _and_ _he is no longer my brother_.

“No, shut up!” He yelled at the voice in his head. Panic was overcoming reason and Mairon didn’t know what to do. The next room over, Aiwendil’s room, was just the same as Curumo’s, empty and desolate, but there was – something. Words. A message on the wall.

_**AWAKEN.** _

He read it out loud and the voice, that voice, spoke it at the same time, deep and warm and hoarse. Familiar. He knew that voice. He knew. He remembered.

A shrill sound. Like something tearing. No, the phone, it was Mairon’s phone, he left it in the kitchen and it was ringing. He left it in the kitchen, he. He didn’t think! But he needed to return there, he needed the phone. He needed to call the police or his father or someone. He needed to. Eönwë. Eönwë would know what to do. Eönwë always knew what to do. Stupid, flighty bird, but he would help.

_Bird. Why bird, he’s nothing like a bird, he’s. Nothing like a bird._

He was in the kitchen and the stench was sickening. The phone was still ringing, but the sound was stifled or submerged or, something, because it came from the inside of the pot. The pot. The stove was turned on and Mairon hissed when he touched the lid, but it didn’t burn him, it didn’t hurt. The phone was inside and still ringing and the spoon was gone, he couldn’t find it, it was nowhere to be seen, there were no spoons anywhere at all. But it was ringing and it was important, so Mairon bit his lips and reached into the pot with his bare hand. The phone stopped ringing and the pain was searing but not his, scorching and excruciating but he didn’t feel it.

Four fingers instead of five, his hand: the index finger of his right hand, missing. But then. It was never there? He didn’t know. A voice, a voice he knew, in the receiver.

“ _You should have returned with me_ ,” Eönwë said in the ancient language of those who were there at the beginning. He sounded sad. Hollow. Like everything was over, everything was lost, there was no turning back. A different voice. Not the Eönwë Mairon knew. A different Eönwë. A real Eönwë. “ _You should have returned with me.”_

He was back in his room and everything was gone but the mirror. Clutching the phone in his hands, white-knuckled from the pressure, Mairon sat at the wall opposite to the mirror and shook. He may have been sobbing or he may have not; any sounds he made were lost in the repeated message in the phone, distorted and cruel and “ _You should have returned with me. You should have returned with me. You should have-“_

“No,” he whispered and threw the phone against the mirror. The device fell apart but not the mirror. The smooth surface broke but didn’t shatter; black smoke began to seep through it, as though from beyond, black smoke in tendrils which curled and uncurled like a gentle caress.

“ _You should have returned with me_ ,” Eönwë said from the broken phone.

**AWAKEN** , said the deep, warm voice, carried to Mairon’s ears on the fumes of black smoke.

“ _You should have returned with me You should have returned with me You should have returned with me You should have-“_

**SILENCE** , the voice commanded firmly.

Eönwë’s voice ceased to be.

“Please,” Mairon sobbed. “Please, I’m… I don’t know what’s going on… Please stop…”

**IT IS TIME** , said the deep voice from beyond the mirror. **REMEMBER. I HAVE WAITED LONG ENOUGH, LIEUTENANT.**

“I… I’m scared,” whispered Mairon, curling into a ball against the wall. Hiding his face in his hands, he whimpered when the smoke touched his cheek. Like a gentle caress, the tendrils moved and wrapped around his trembling form. “I don’t, I don’t remember,” Mairon said feverishly, shaking his head, but he felt it: the pull of memories under the surface, beyond the smooth wall of the mirror. Cracks marking the surface like a web.

_Break it_ , he thought. _I need to break it. I need to._

**YES** , the voice agreed.

Shakily, Mairon got up to his feet. The tendrils of smoke whirled around him as he walked one unsteady step after another, hands stretched in front of him like a blind man: towards the mirror, towards, step by step, and another, until his fingers touched the cracked surface-

**REMEMBER. AWAKEN** , the voice prompted him gently and Mairon longed for it, longed to hold it close, longed.

Hands grabbing at his ankles, tripping him, skeletal fingers and tortured wails of his countless victims, his captors in the darkness, holding him back, holding him down, fingers in his eyes and in his mouth and in his hair, pulling and choking and blinding, but the dam was broken and memories of the ages flooded his mind, unstoppable and wild-

**MAIRON… RETURN TO ME, MY LOVE.**

“Melkor…” Mairon whispered reverently, “my Lord, my Lord, I'm coming to you-“

With a broken cry, he shattered the mirror and threw himself through the Door of Night.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This was written in a kind of creepypasta style. That's why it's so lame and so short. Sorry. If I had my way it would have been 30k words of worldbuilding. 
> 
> 2\. The Eönwë who's Mairon's friend is actually his own subconscious, which is why he helps solve the puzzle. The Eönwë he hears near the ending is the "real" Eönwë, probably something Mairon heard before being locked up in his own personal hell.
> 
> 3\. Speaking of personal hell. Everything is an illusion conjured up by the Void, so the story takes place after the LOTR canon! Fun fun fun! BUT MELKOR WAITED FOR HIM and now they can start Dagor Dagorath isn't it so sweet!
> 
> 3.1. Can the Void take inspiration from the ages to come? WHY NOT. THE VOID CAN DO EVERYTHING IT WANTS.
> 
> 4\. Forgive my documentary making skills. I needed a way to implement all that lore :>


End file.
